Speechless
by Nausicaa Smith
Summary: Bulma and Vegeta take a step toward friendship during his first Christmas at Capsule Corp. Updated to fix corrupted formatting.


Bulma Briefs never had been particularly religious, but Christmas was something special. Her favorite holiday, and not just because of gifts. It was… a festival of lights. A wondrous and beautiful time of year that she believed brought more people together than any other event. Not that she entertained the notion that some carpenter had died for her sins thousands of years ago or anything. Even if she ever had, Son-kun had met some of the Gods and told her personally that they didn't really need any more worship; they were big enough egotistical assholes without Earth's help. But still, for whatever reasons, Bulma loved Christmas. She loved the decorations, the gatherings, the food and music and festivities. The Nameks had told her that they had a similar festival during their winters (which only occurred every thirty years because of the peculiar situation with their suns and their planet's orbit) and that it had nothing to do with religion; it was simply to lift the people's spirits. This winter festival brought warmth to the people's hearts in the darkest days of the year, and in a way that nothing else could.

Today was the last day of November and she planned on having all the decorations up by nightfall. Outside, her father's staff was busily stringing lights and garland—all blue and white and silver—from every balcony, every chimney top and window possible. At Christmas Capsule Corporation looked like it was trying to home in the mothership. Probably it could be seen as one bright pinprick from outer space. Bulma's mother was busy at work in the kitchen whipping out pies, cookies, cakes, tarts, cobblers, and every other dessert imaginable. Most of these would be frozen and shipped out to family and friends for the holidays with cards and gifts. A lot of them would be saved for the party on Christmas Eve, which would be attended by all of her parents' families, all their friends and everybody else they could drag inside the compound. Usually Daddy adopted all the kids from a local orphanage for the night, and all the animals from a local shelter for forever. Her mother loved to feed people, and Daddy indulged her every chance he got. It was really cute how they were still in love. Sometimes it really depressed Bulma that she couldn't find a love like that. Stupid Yamcha.

Bulma had dug through the attic and found storybooks and disks of Christmas music and was busily decorating her own apartment. The tree was right by the plate window on the outside of her room, reaching all the way to the ceiling. It was elegantly decorated in red and silver, with a lovely twinkling star atop it. On her couch were stuffed Christmas teddy bears from years before and she had set up a little train set down one side of the hallway to the bedroom. Nobody would see it but her, but it didn't matter. In the bathroom she had changed all the light bulbs from plain white to red and green, and there was a wreath hanging on the door. Once through with her own apartment, she set out for her mother's kitchen, where she expected to be assaulted by every type of confection she'd ever eaten and then some.

And she was correct. The smell was incredible—pumpkin spice and cinnamon and ginger and vanilla, an ambush on her senses and on her memory—and there was her mother, fussing over some tiny cheesecake/pumpkin tarts. "Dear, have you seen my short broiler pan? You know, with the handle in the middle?"

"Sorry, Mama. The short-pan thief strikes again." Bulma snuck a Santa-shaped sugar-cookie off a layered plate of sweets. "Have you got any candies made yet?"

"Only the peppermint sticks. Oh, and you wanted those poinsettia-shaped chocolates, didn't you? I've got the molds ready over on the counter…" Bulma drifted out the door on the opposite side. This building belonged to her family only, and had been home for as long as she could remember. There were five guest apartments, and five more reserved for family only. Each apartment had a small living/dining area, a kitchenette, a bedroom with a walk-in closet and a bathroom. Yamcha took up one this year, as usual. They'd broken up three months earlier and had decided to call it quits permanently. Their relationship had always been rocky at the best of times, despite Yamcha's sweetness. He had a tendency to wander and Bulma suspected that she'd never be able to tie him down. He was only here for the holidays, and then he was off on another training trip the day after New Year's. She thought she was coping rather well without him. She'd gone on a week-long crying jag and quit eating regularly. The resultant (if accidental) weight loss was pleasant, she supposed. But Bulma hadn't been able to bring herself to start actively looking for another man. _Maybe I'll just become an old cat lady. It works for Auntie Enid._

* * *

Another guest suite belonged now to Vegeta. Bulma had moved him into the family's villa not long after he'd arrived, afraid he'd clash with the Namek warrior-priests a bit violently in the guest building. Mostly he kept to himself, and as long as he was kept supplied with plenty of food in his own kitchen he even cooked for himself. She was surprised by that at first, but then remembered that he, unlike herself, had been a soldier. Goku, Krillin, Yamcha, and even Tenshinhan had some rudimentary cooking skills because when you're alone in the wilderness, you've got to fend for yourself. Goku, especially, had spent much of his wilderness training without any capsules at all. She figured Vegeta had had the same experiences. It was early afternoon one day in the first week of December when the heiress hopped light-heartedly down the steps and as she turned the corner into the great room on the first floor she was greeted by the sight of a bare tree—a real fir tree—and the wonderful aroma of the pine needles. Vegeta was sitting silently in a corner with a book of Christmas stories. Her father was nowhere in sight, but her eyes traveled over her alien guest before she entered the room.

Vegeta in street clothes was almost irresistible. In spite of his cold and condescending nature Bulma had to admit her attraction to him. _I mean come on, he can be a dick but he's fine as hell._ She'd never tell him that, of course. He looked so much softer in this setting, with his neck and collarbone visible under a deep red top, his hands bare and they flipped a page… and then his eyes met hers. He'd caught her watching him. Dammit. Well, he'd probably known she was there before she even made it down the stairs.

Bulma stepped off the bottom step and onto the plush carpet with a cocky smile. "Seen my Dad?" she asked, taking a seat on the arm of a chair by the entertainment center. This room was all green and cream-colored. Vegeta, when he wasn't sulking in his own apartment, was usually here or in the gravity room. _Maybe green is his favorite color._ Right. As if someone of Vegeta's sort would entertain such petty preferences as favorite colors_._

"Dr. Briefs has returned to the attic." So formal. Bulma was forever reminding herself that despite his job title—Purger of Planets, Murderer of Millions—he had still been raised, to an degree anyway, a Prince. Real live royalty. He had manners, grace, tact, charm, and an extensive education. Whether he chose to employ them, of course, was another matter entirely. He tilted his head back toward the book. Bulma stood and flipped through a stack of CDs before selecting one and snapping it closed in the player. 'March of the Toy Soldiers' began to play softly and Bulma pulled back the sage-colored sheers to view the front lawn… It had snowed! It was barely December and it had snowed already! Her spirits soaring, Bulma squealed and hopped across the room to look out the other window. A soft voice stopped her in her tracks: "Bulma?"

Startled, she turned halfway to look at Vegeta. Had he spoken without first being spoken to? Was he… coming out of his shell? Speaking to her calmly and rationally? What shocked her most was… did he really… _know her name?_ Impossible!

"May I ask you something?" He sounded sincere. Bulma felt the need to sit down. She plodded heavily back over to his vicinity and took a seat on the edge of a low couch, wondering what could possibly inspire him to address her so.

"Sure." She said. Why not?

"What is the purpose of this… Christmas? Is it a religious or cultural event?" He held up the book. _Children's Holiday Favorites._ Probably the only thing he'd been able to get his hands on, outside of her father's library. Suddenly Bulma felt much more sure of herself—why the sudden insecurity, anyway?

"Getting mixed signals, huh?" Many children's tales contradicted each other. Many were also filled with candy canes, dancing elves and talking snowmen.

She could understand his concern.

"It's a bit of both. Christmas itself is the reinvention of an older pagan holiday that was lost thousands of years ago." Bulma pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one as she spoke. "Back in those days, there was a festival of lights right smack in the darkest part of the year. The pagans celebrated life and sunshine in the gloomy days of the winter, and thanked their gods for allowing them to survive. When the Christians began to take over the world—Christians are people who believe in one, all-powerful God who sent his only son here to Earth to die for _their_ sins—"

"What?" Vegeta looked confounded.

"Yeah, no kidding." Bulma took a drag off the cigarette, indicating her agreement with a nod. "So, anyway, the Christians believe that this son of God, who was called Christ, was crucified—that is, nailed to a wooden cross, tortured, killed, and was resurrected a few days later. Hence the name, Christmas. They think that December 25th is his birthdate, back thousands of years ago. So, when they were taking over all the world's major religions way back when, they found that these pagans had a festival similar to the way they celebrated Christmas, so they incorporated the pagan's traditions into their own celebrations. As a way of making the transition easier for them."

"I see. And do people still believe in this… son of god?"

"Some people. We live in a more uh, enlightened society these days, but there will always be pockets of religious folk who believe one wild story or another."

"Do you?"

"I…" Bulma didn't profess to be any particular religion. She just felt the way she felt and was the way she was, and that was it. "I don't particularly believe in anything. I don't go to church or say my prayers or set aside one day a week to worship some invisible man in the sky. I know of Kami, and I know he doesn't welcome such praise. Hah. Anyway, that's what all this decoration is for."

"Does Kakarott believe in all of this?"

"Son is a Shintoist. He also believes in reincarnation—rebirth—and karma—that you get what you deserve—and that all things are connected—the birds and bees and trees and rocks and rivers. He believes that the lowliest little snail can hold the power of the mightiest god. And he's seen the other world, too, just like you. He celebrates Christmas with everyone else this time of year, but not because of the Christians. He's the same about it as I am—a festival of lights, to remind you of brighter days."

"What about the other warriors?"

"Most of them sort of consider the martial arts to be their religion. Krillin is the only exception—he's a Shaolin monk, a holy man. You ask him about it sometime. I don't completely understand his reasons, not well enough to explain it to someone else, anyhow. All I can figure is that he was sent to the temple when he was very small, and it's very hard to do away with things you've been raised to believe." She put her cigarette out as he nodded thoughtfully… Understandingly? No.

He still seemed to be forming a question, so she waited patiently for him to speak.

"Why the flying reindeer?"

Bulma burst into a fit of giggles and continued to snicker occasionally through the rest of the day.

* * *

Three days later Bulma had to explain greeting cards to him. Why, he asked, waste the time and paper to write "Merry Christmas" when you could just call someone? Or, better yet, not even acknowledge the stupid holiday?

"Well… it's complicated. I don't suppose you can understand the reasons behind tradition, can you?" Bulma asked irritably while hanging up everyone's cards on the mantle of the sitting room.

"Of course I can! It's what most of my people's culture was founded on." He huffed, sidling out of the way as she pinned up one from Aunt Margot in France. She squashed a strong urge to ask him to explain his people's culture to her—she had no idea whether it was a sensitive subject or not, and although she was fascinated by the thought of a whole other world of customs and traditions, she did not want to piss him off about it. Then she'd never find out anything.

"Well, thousands of years ago, there was no such thing as a telephone. So, people who wanted to communicate with far-away relatives sent letters and things by post." Bulma opened up a card from Roshi, Krillin, Lunch and Turtle, showing him the glittery interior and the signatures. "These days there are better ways of communication, but Christmas greetings are a tradition all around the world. It's just a nice way of letting your loved ones know that you're thinking about them during the winter festivals, and it's a nice thing to have to remind you of Christmases past."

"Why the hell would you want to remember other winters?"

"Don't you like winter, Vegeta?" Bulma raised a perfect eyebrow and smiled at him mischievously. He eyed her suspiciously for a moment and then replied:

"I dislike snow."

And that was it. It was much, much later that night when she started thinking about this small exchange again. Later still—she was in bed with a Stephen Hawking essay—when she began to realize that his trips out to the GR were less and less frequent since the onset of the cold weather. Automatically, whenever a problem arose in Bulma Briefs' life, she began to think of a way to solve it. No use fretting; she was a woman of action. Vegeta was always wearing two sweaters—usually a turtleneck covered by something knit. If he went outside, he stood stiffly and was careful of the icicles. Hmmm… a strip of heating elements, perhaps? To melt the snow between the domes of the compound and the Gravity Chamber? _I dislike snow._ It was the only time she could remember him expressing any kind of personal preference—in this case, an aversion to a particular weather condition—whatsoever. He didn't talk about himself. He had no anecdotes to tell, no funny stories or memories of his childhood to relate. Maybe his planet didn't have a winter season? But no, she should make no assumptions. Nothing. The only thing Bulma Briefs really knew about Vegeta, Prince of Saiyans, was that he did not like snow.

* * *

Another week gone by and he asked her what was in eggnog. She'd been making some tuna salad for lunch when he asked her. She jumped; he was stealthy like that. _One must learn to tread lightly on the hard metal deck of a spaceship_, she guessed at random. _Maybe a thousand soldiers stomping around on steel makes a lot of noise_. He didn't seem to do it on purpose. When she turned to him, he was standing with the refrigerator open, holding up a pitcher of her mother's special homemade and _quite_ potent holiday spiced eggnog. He looked genuinely curious, not derisive, so she obliged him by calling downstairs to her mother:

"Mom, what's in eggnog?"

"Oh, not much, dear! Eggs, cream, cinnamon, ginger…"

"It's dairy, she says," Bulma turned to the black-clad man on the other end of the kitchen. "Eggs and cream and spices. And probably a good dose of rum."

"Hm." He put the pitcher back and pulled out a can of grape soda. Without any further prompting, he offered: "Milk makes me sick." He was gone.

And with that, Bulma spilled a whole can of tuna on herself. The stream of curses issuing from the kitchen soon brought both of her parents, Yamcha, Puar, and Vegeta to the doorways to observe. Once her rant was finished, she declared herself okay and decided to skip lunch. On the way back to her room she tripped and nearly killed one of her mother's oriental vases. Dammit. Since when did just talking to Vegeta—or anyone for that matter—throw her off like this? She stripped the ruined jumpsuit off and jumped into the shower. She was going to be late getting back to the office. Goddamn son of a bitch….

Of course the only explanation for her weird nerves around him was that she was getting a crush on him. She'd never denied that she was attracted to him physically, but something about his cold, indifferent personality struck her. She thought it had something to do with that old saying: opposites attract. Bulma was always as warm and friendly as she could be to everyone. Sure, she could be a bitch sometimes, and she knew it. Thrived on it. But really, she meant well. She was the first one to offer help when someone was in need, the first one to organize the rescue mission, the first one to stand up for the downtrodden and the oppressed. Vegeta was completely opposite; frankly, my dear, he didn't give a damn. Let the orphans starve, he'd probably say. Serves them right for being born orphans.

Bulma mulled the past week over in her mind as she scrubbed. No point rushing now, anyway. Life around the house was definitely different with Vegeta lurking around. He did things that pissed her off, and she was sure that he did some them on purpose. For example, he always left the TV remote sitting right on the shelf in front of the TV. Now, what is the point of having the remote if you have to get up and walk across the freaking room and right up to the TV to get it? Why couldn't he just leave it lying on the table? Or on the couch? That made so much more sense. She was sure he just did it to irk her. If she hadn't said anything about it, he probably would never have done it again.

But strangely she had to admit that she enjoyed her occasional arguments with him. She had been a champion on every debate team she'd ever joined, and she definitely found a good verbal spar very gratifying. The only person around who could really compete on her level had been her Dad for the longest time, and she didn't want to argue with him. Vegeta presented an interesting challenge not only because of his superior technical knowledge—she'd been pleasantly surprised to find that not only could he fly his alien spacecrafts, he knew many of the secrets that made them work—but because he was from so different a culture than her own. Bulma took every opportunity to engage him in conversations about ethics and politics and the outside universe. Not that such opportunities arose often, but on occasion… Like the snow thing. Was that a cultural thing? A personal thing? And it struck her as she was toweling her hair dry—

Now she knew two facts about Vegeta. Number one: he didn't like snow. Number two: he was lactose intolerant. Mighty useful information, that.

* * *

Useful information, indeed, because two nights later Bulma's mother made potato soup for dinner. It was one of her favorites; a comfort food. Bulma could eat potato soup every day and never tire of it, with some extra cheese and maybe some goldfish crackers—wait. Cheese. Where was Vegeta? If the Briefs heiress recalled correctly from her few and ineffective cooking lessons, her mother's recipe for potato soup called for an awful lot of cheese, and heavy cream too.

"Mama, has Vegeta been down yet?"

"He ate earlier, dear." Her mother poured some more tea out of a Santa covered teapot on the warmer. "I think he's trying to avoid the festivities as much as possible, because when I told him that darling Goku and his family would be arriving Christmas Eve—"

"Did he eat any of this soup?" Bulma stood up uneasily.

"Yes dear, in fact after he went upstairs I had to make a whole new pot—"

"I'll be back." Bulma headed out. "Sorry Mama."

She looked out the window and down; the GR wasn't lit up, so he must be in his rooms. Outside the yellow kitchen Bulma fell into a dead run, streaking down the wide corridor and made a right turn… and then another… and two doors down she stopped. Knocked politely, without urgency, despite the pounding of her heart. How sensitive was he to milk? Would he maybe have a stomachache or would it be something worse? Could he go into anaphylactic shock? Surely not…

"Hey, B." Yamcha's stupid nickname for her (B, or sometimes BB) pissed her off to no end, but right now she didn't have time for his crap. She turned and saw him, dressed for dinner and headed that way. He waved at her. "What's goin' on?"

"Nothing."

"What do you want with Vegeta?"

"None of your business, Yamcha." Bulma knocked again, louder. "Vegeta! I know you're in there!" She turned quickly to her ex. "He _is_ in there, isn't he?"

"That's his ki all right." Yamcha was beside her now. In the old days he might have put an arm around her, but now that they were no longer in a sexual relationship he laid one hand chastely at the small of her back with a note of concern in his voice. "Something wrong? What did he do?"

"I think he might be sick." She said simply, "And I'd hate to have to explain his body to the coroners, considering his lack of social security ID and, you know, human DNA." Yamcha laughed a little and replied:

"Come to think about it, his ki is a little weak. I just thought he'd been training too hard again. You know, one of these days he's going to hurt himself pretty bad—" Yamcha stopped abruptly when Bulma pulled out her keys. She, her mother and her father each had a skeleton key that would unlock any and every door on the complex, as well as those on other compounds that were owned by the C.C. Because, Dad said, you never know what might happen. Bulma picked the correct one off the ring and it clicked loudly as the deadbolt threw itself back, to Yamcha's utter fascination. "Can you do that to my room?" he asked suspiciously.

"In a heartbeat." She replied curtly as the door slid up. She didn't mean to be so cold to him. They had always been friends before lovers, but right now she was on a mission.

Yamcha followed timidly behind Bulma as she barged in to Vegeta's little living room—no sign of him. In fact, there was no sign that anyone even lived here! Everything was in place, clean, immaculate, and perfect. No dirty training gear or unwashed dishes, no crumbs on the carpet, and not even a speck of dust. _Okay, either this is the wrong suite or we've got a serious OCD case on our hands…_ But no. This was the right room; the TV remote was sitting right there on the TV stand. _Son of a bitch._ To the couple's further amazement, the bedroom was well-kept and smelled like clean laundry and Polo Sport—_weird!_ —and there was nary a speck of dust or dirt here either. It was like the Twilight Zone or something.

But the bathroom light was on, and the door was wide open. The dark form on the floor didn't stir as they approached. With a sickening sense of dread Bulma stepped right up to him—if he awoke and found them in here would he kill them?—he was pale and his face was covered in a light sheen of sweat. There was a heavy scent of vomit in the air, but no other sign of his having been ill. With his features slackened so he looked much younger and vulnerable even, but his breathing was shallow and quick, his coloring distressed. Yamcha's voice came out of nowhere, asking something about a doctor—

"Oh, what's a doctor going to do? We know more about Saiyan physiology than they do because of Goku." Bulma bent and pressed two fingers to the pulse point at Vegeta's jawline. It was quick but not erratic. That, plus the even (if shallow) breath was a good sign; he was stable for the time being, but his temperature was higher than she thought it should be even compared to Goku's unnatural average of a hundred and one. She shook his shoulder lightly, called to him.

No response.

"What should we do?"

"I don't know."

"What made you think he was sick?"

"Just a hunch, I guess…" Bulma couldn't bring herself to tell Yamcha or the others about the milk thing. Chances were, if anyone knew, Vegeta might 'accidentally' be running across milk products more and more often. He was pretty high up on most of the guys' shit lists.

"So…" Yamcha had died at the hands of Vegeta's minions. His friends had been killed as well, and they'd spent a long time in the afterlife as a direct result of actions taken by the unconscious man on the floor before them. Still, Yamcha had always had a kind and forgiving heart. He wasn't one to abandon anyone to their fate, and he sure wasn't inclined to kick a man when he was down, no matter what a bastard the guy was. Bulma shouldn't have been surprised when a moment later he said, "Maybe we should put him to bed." He crouched down by Vegeta and tugged the Saiyan's slackened arm till he was lying flat on his back. Yamcha laughed a little: "He kind of looks pathetic, huh?"

* * *

Christmas Eve. Bulma had watched the old black-and-white _Miracle on 34th_ _Street_ seventeen times in the past week. She and Goku were wearing matching Ho³ shirts. (Get it? Ho cubed? Ho Ho Ho? Ahh-ha-ha-ha. Ha.) Vegeta, fully recovered, was lurking in the shadows somewhere. She thought Gohan was trying to befriend him. Well, good luck kid. After he'd awoken from his lactose-induced coma he'd been indifferent; surprised to find that someone had cared enough to come check on him but coldly insistent that he hadn't needed it all the same. Well, that's what she got for trying to help someone.

Bulma was sitting, chain smoking, by the hearth in the great room. Everyone else was finishing dinner, but Vegeta hadn't been in attendance. The party would start soon. Guests were already arriving. Goku entered the room alone (probably attempting to escape either his wife or Bulma's mother) and came to sit on a low couch facing her. She'd been enjoying her own company, but she didn't mind Goku. He was her best and oldest friend. Followed closely by Krilliin, Yamcha, Oolong and Puar, of course. His goofy smile and perpetually cheerful demeanor, even in the worst of times, could bring anybody out of a depression.

"How's it goin', Sis?" he asked. He always called her that when he wanted something, or when he was trying to hide something. She wondered briefly which it was, but was in no mood for it.

"Okay." She said noncommittally.

"Anything new?"

"Not really. No news is good news, I guess."

He didn't appear convinced. Everyone thought he was so dense and Bulma had to admit, he could be pretty spacey at times. But really he was more perceptive than the others, in his own way. He could go months without seeming to _think_ at all, then one day he might say something so deeply insightful she'd be stuck on it for days. But it came to him so naturally that the one time she'd asked him about this behavior, he hadn't had a clue what she was talking about. It was some weird form of autism, she speculated. He was lacking in many, many areas—math, language skills, social skills—but excelled in a few. She and Krillin (his next closest friend) had discussed this at length once and decided that he'd sustained some minor brain damage in addition to the amnesia from his fall down that ravine as a child. He did have the scar there. If only she could talk him into taking an MRI or something—

"Found a replacement for Yamcha yet?"

"… not really."

"Was'sat mean?"

Oh, he could be so shrewd at times. He knew something was wrong. Well, she did need somebody to talk to. She'd been pining over Vegeta a bit. Not that she, you know, really _liked_ him, liked him. Or anything. She was sure it was just the time of year, the sparkly decorations and the nice, romantic fire crackling happily behind her that were making her feel this way. It was her first Chrstmas alone in a long time.

Damn, who was she kidding? She sighed. Lit another cigarette.

"Oh, Goku." Goku waited patiently, his head tilted to one side. "Why do I always fall for such assholes?"

"Assholes like who?"

Bastard.

"Oh, just assholes in general." Give nothing away, not yet. "I know Yamcha never meant to be mean; he was just careless. But…"

"You don't fall for assholes, Bulma." He had that grin on his face. He knew, the little jerk. (Well, big jerk these days.) "You just got this weird way of seeing the good in people, even when everybody else don't. It's a good thing, right?"

"Is it?"

"You knew Yamcha was a good guy deep down when we first met him, even though he was trying to kill us. That's one!"

"But Yamcha is an open book! He doesn't count, he's too obvious."

"Well then, take Vegeta." _How in hell—?_ "He ain't such a bad guy, and you gotta know that because you gave him a place to stay even though he's done a lot of bad stuff. But he's real defensive, and if you were to see through him and surprise him with one of those nice little things you do for people—you know, 'cause you can't just say how much you really care 'cause you're too embarrassed—he might just be touched. And then, he'd get all pissed off 'cause of it and say something mean to hurt your feelings. But he wouldn't really mean it, it's just a habit since he's had so much pain in his life already that he's afraid of bein' hurt some more." That smug smirk again. She just wanted to slug him, but she'd do more damage to her own hand than to his face. "But I guess that wouldn't make it hurt 'cha feelin's any less, huh?"

_You astound me, Son Goku._

"I guess you're right."

"So… is he still an asshole?"

"…yes."

"Oh, well."

"Goku?"

"How the hell did you know it was Vegeta? Of all people?"

"A little birdie told me, Sis."

Little did she know that this little birdie was a time-traveling Super Saiyan with lavender hair, blue eyes and a jacket emblazoned with the CC logo.

* * *

Midnight was a long time past. Gohan was sound asleep in Goku's arms and Chichi was dragging them out the door. With a wave and the promise to visit at New Year's her best friend was gone again. Probably she wouldn't see him until then. The party had gone off smooth; Vegeta had made no appearance at the actual event, but was lurking in the shadows, dressed to match them. She figured he was interested; she'd seen him watching her dance with Goku to _The Night Santa Went Crazy_. Yeah, Weird Al _would_ be Vegeta's kind of music. Everyone had filed out eventually. Krillin and Roshi had gone back to the Turtle House, Oolong had gone back to wherever he went; Yamcha was already in bed, and so were her parents. She and Vegeta were probably the only ones still awake. Bulma was too wired to sleep. Well, she figured as long as she was still up and he was too, she might as well give him his Christmas present. So she found herself seeking him out, and dragging him by a sleeve to the sliding glass door at the back of the darkened great room, which was something of a mess now.

"I made you something for Christmas." She told him, sliding the door open and dragging him outside. Oddly, she failed to wonder _why_ he was allowing her to drag him anywhere. His far superior strength should have been more than a match for her tiny 95-pound frame. Suddenly she was regretting the missing pounds; in the cold her Christmas dress seemed insubstantial even with the sweater, but the starlight shining on the smooth blanket of snow that silvered the grounds made her want to stay outside anyhow. It was so peaceful. The very picture of what Christmas was supposed to be about, right?

"I don't like Christmas." Vegeta responded, not missing a beat. Of course he didn't.

"Of course you don't. I made it anyway, so get over it." She gestured to the yard. The stars were so pretty, sparkling everywhere. It was a perfectly clear night, and the snowfall that afternoon hadn't been marred by any of the staff, which was off all this week. She and Goku and the gang had all had a snowball war earlier that morning but there was no trace of it left now. "See all this snow? You said you didn't like snow."

"I don't like snow." He agreed flatly. He stood off beside her disinterestedly, and she avoided looking at him. Wanted to get it over with.

"Well, I've got a way of taking care of it for you. Sort of. See how far it is from here to the GR?" she pointed across the silver lawn. "We planted some heating elements a couple feet under the ground and connected it to a switch on the inside of the door here so you can just melt all the snow before you go out there. So you won't have to walk through it. It still leaves a lot of water on the ground, but I'm working on that."

He hadn't said anything. She really hadn't expected him to. Actually, she was waiting for the taunting words that he was sure to start spouting once he decided it was stupid. What Goku had said earlier had sort of put Vegeta's behavior in perspective though, and she knew in her head that whatever hurtful things he had to say wouldn't really mean anything. Just reflex, that's all. This wasn't some charity act, anyway. She just wanted to show him that not everybody was mean. Not everyone was hateful. Not everyone wanted to make him suffer. She was compelled to do nice things for him because she wanted to demonstrate to him that everyone in the whole universe wasn't like Freiza. Well, and because she liked him. Only Kami knew why, but she liked the bastard. She just couldn't help herself.

Not that she'd ever tell _him_ that.

"Look, the switch is in here." She pulled him back inside and pointed. It was the bottom switch on the plate of light switches. She flipped it, and turned back to the glass doors. For a moment it appeared as though nothing was happening, but momentarily the whole strip of snow between the back door and the GR entrance had begun to cave in and within seconds was nothing but a long wet puddle of dead turf. "Like I said, we're working on the water thing. But this is an improvement, I guess. It's still going to be a long winter. Merry Christmas, Vegeta." She finally dared to look over at him—

And Gods… He was smiling at her. Really smiling.

"Thank you." He said softly, and he disappeared back into the darkness.

And for perhaps the first time in her entire life Bulma Briefs was left standing there, perfectly speechless.

* * *

A/N: Okay, I took this note out during my revision but it looks like I'm going to put it back. Dear kind reviewers, please note that this is a fanfiction, _not_ a religious commentary. There is a clearly structured afterlife in DBZ that involves people like the Southern and Northern Kais and King Yemma. It does not involve Jesus. Bulma isn't bashing anyone's religion, she's only stating what she knows as fact, because that's what it is in her universe. Fact. Besides that, she's a scientist and I think these beliefs are in line with her personality. If you disagree that's all well and good, but please keep religious discussion out of the reviews page. Thanks for being open-minded. -Nausicaa


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